what would an angel say
by boleynqueens
Summary: "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?"
**2002**

Henry's halfway through his coke and whiskey when a tiny brunette hoists herself onto a barstool three seats away from him, sliding an enormous purse (really, practically a suitcase, and white, to match her dress, he assumes) onto the matte black surface of the bar.

Her hair, long and dark brown, spills in waves around her shoulders, her eyes are somehow bright and dark at the same time, and two beauty marks upon otherwise porcelain skin dot a sharp jaw line.

The bartender has been yammering rapid French into his cell phone for the past ten minutes. Henry considers himself lucky that he sat down and ordered fifteen minutes before this guy's phone rang, though at the moment he doesn't consider himself lucky in much else.

 _But maybe that's about to change._

The girl ( _woman? so hard to tell in Los Angeles, whereas in London every woman tends to dress her respective age, here it's anyone's guess, and God help you if it's wrong_ ) taps a manicured hand against the bar. She waves a hand at the bartender, and scoffs at his raised 'one moment' index finger, red and glossy mouth twisted into a scowl.

Anne pulls her Blackberry out of her purse, massively annoyed by this turn of events. She considers taking out her pack and lighting a cigarette while she's at it (bars have rapidly become non-smoking in the past few years, much to her chagrin)- perhaps it will make _Jacques Jabbermouth_ here get off his phone for long enough to tell her to put it out; but ultimately decides against it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Why are you wearing white to a bar?"

She looks up from her phone, briefly, and assesses the questioner with the British accent: white t-shirt, blue jeans, mid-twenties and handsome, a lighter at his elbow. But his tee is made of something far more supple than some Target purchase, the scoop almost artful, color snowy, the jeans a more dazzling indigo than the water of Santa Monica beach at sunset, shoes an Italian leather, the lighter is sterling silver engraved with a rose, so he obviously has money.

His beard and hair are a gingerish brown, nose Greek, mouth stupidly plush (more girlish than hers, even, and she doesn't make a habit out of hooking up with men that are prettier than she is, _thank you very much_ ). His eyes are a blue and grey mixture, the color of a dusky stone she found while combing the beach as a teenager (she had pocketed it and looked it up in the library afterwards: amazonite, apparently) and framed by lashes that are longer than hers ( _again, with the prettiness_ …she is not a fan).

Given that her last-hook up with some wealthy pretty-boy resulted in tears, she's going to take a hard pass at this one. _Thanks, but no thanks_.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Because I'm a virgin, obviously," she says in a breathy, high voice (some sort of mocking affect, Henry assumes, rather than her natural voice), she finishes, with an eye roll, " _duh_."

"Are you?" Henry asks, bemused.

" _No_ ," she snaps in a voice like Fiona Apple's (if this _is_ her real one, that is, _it's sexy_ , alto and edgy), smoothing a hand over the tiered white skirt of her dress ( _very 'Seven Year Itch_ ,' which was going to be his next line) "look, I've had a _really_ shitty night, and I'm sure you're like…whatever you are, important or whatever, but I'm _really_ not in the mood for-"

"I'll raise you five I've had a shittier one."

She actually turns in her barstool to face him for that one, narrowing her eyes.

She stares at him as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a thin, silver wallet.

"You're on," she says.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"You first," he says, his gaze a challenge, smoldering, sweeping over the cleavage above the fitted bodice of her dress.

"Ex's wedding," Anne says.

"And you were the runaway bride?" he asks, laughing.

"No, I was a guest."

"You're not supposed to wear white to a wedding unless you're the bride."

"Well, I _hate_ the bride. And him. So…"

"I see."

"What's yours?"

"Mine?"

"Your shitty night that supposedly tops mine."

"Oh."

He traces a calloused finger over the rim of his glass, filled with a dark liquid but no ice. It makes a ringing sound, and she notices the bartender wince. _Good,_ she thinks.

He lifts the glass, and stares at it, as if reading tea leaves, speaking while looking at it rather than her:

"I walked in on my sister going down on my girlfriend," he says with a smirk before shotgunning the remainder of the drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once he's finished.

" _Christ_ ," Anne says after a beat, working the clasp on her wallet, she flips through the cash in the flap and pulls out a bill with Abraham Lincoln and slides it towards him, "you win."

"I'd rather win a seat next to you. I don't need that," he says, pushing it away, a rather condescending gesture, in Anne's opinion, but given the circumstances, _maybe_ she can let it go.

"You said 'raise you five,'" she says, crossing her arms, the crumpled bill an insult in between them on the bar, mocking her with its existence and return.

"Yes, and it's an expression," he counters, pushing his glass away.

"Not to most people."

"I'm _not_ most people."

"And _yet_ that's what most people say."

"And all _I_ said was 'raise you five'. I could've meant five anything, and you already told me I won."

"Five anything?"

"Sure…five watches, five diamonds, five hours in bed with you…you're lucky all I meant was five minutes sitting next to a pretty girl," he says, patting the stool next to him, "and five minutes of conversation."

"That's two different fives. I _could_ say we only agreed on one," Anne counters, smiling, biting her thumb as she does(lipstick be damned).

"And _I_ could say you've got a smart mouth that I could think of better uses for. But I won't. Because I'm a gentleman," he says with a shrug and an easy smile.

"And yet you _did_!"

"And yet you're still sitting over there," he says, pointing to her seat, then the stool next to him, "and not here."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I don't bite," he continues, lowering his lashes, then looking up at her again, "unless you ask me to."

"I'm usually the one that does the biting," she responds, "actually."

"Mmm. Noted," he says, watching as she slides off the stool and takes a reluctant seat next to him, turning to face him, close enough that he can see the mascara on her eyelashes, make out two more beauty marks that dot her clavicle in a pretty row.

"What's the prat's name?"

"The 'prat'?" she asks, brow furrowing.

"The name of the guy that was stupid enough to let you go," he says, elbows on the bar, "I'm curious."

"Henry Percy," she answers, twisting her hair with one hand, clasping her neck with the other, a quiet sadness cast upon her demeanor as soon as she finishes the saying the last name.

"Stupid fucking name," Henry says.

"It is, isn't it?" she says with a laugh, a sound that warms him, throaty and pleasant and unapologetically loud.

"And yours?"

"Mmm?" he asks, eyes drawn to the golden 'B' hanging from her neck.

Usually Henry hates it when people announce their names or initials via some material. He finds it pretentious. Monogrammed towels make him gag, girls that wear t-shirts with their first names on the chests rub him as desperate, and every time he sees a gift shop or gas station display with names on miniature license plates, or teddy bears, or _fucking pillows_ , he finds himself filled with inexplicable urge to knock it over.

Pretentiousness suits her, though. And the 'B' is ambiguous, gives her an air of mystery- what does it stand for? Is it her first name, her last? The casual observer would have to ask if they really wanted to know. It hints, teases, rather than just shouting out an answer to a question no one's asked.

"What's _your_ name?" she asks.

"Ah…Henry," he admits, reluctantly and she bursts into laughter again, "Tudor; Henry Tudor."

"Yes, miles better," she says, large eyes wide and intent on his, tone solemn.

"More masculine than 'Percy', at any rate," Henry points out, wanting to defend himself.

"Quite."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Well, turns out Pretty-Boy is funny. Something Anne didn't really expect (people that are as attractive as he is generally aren't- why would they need to be?), but she enjoys it. Enjoys his impishness, his smirk, his ready remarks, even his smugness, a little bit.

"So, why did-"

"Nope," Anne says, testing him, she leans in and taps his nose, his stunned reaction making her giggle despite herself, "my turn."

" _Your_ turn?"

"You said five minutes of conversation. Not interrogation. I get to ask questions, too."

"Fine," Henry says, gaze shifting from her eyes to her neck, he flips her hair over one shoulder, settling it there, sliding it from his fingers and putting his hand flat against the bar (testing her back, perhaps).

"Did I _say_ you could touch my hair?" she demands, cheeks burning.

"Does that count as a question?"

"No. We'll go one for one," Anne says, tilting her chin upwards.

"Then I _believe_ it's your turn."

"Does your sister…hate you, or something? Why would she-"

"No, she doesn't… she's been backpacking through Europe for the past few years. I didn't even know she was coming over, though I guess she knew my address from the letters we exchanged. Apparently," he says, laughing, "Katherine told her she was my roommate, despite the fact that she doesn't live at my place…not my girlfriend. So she didn't think she was doing anything wrong."

"You believe her?"

"That's another question, so that means I get two. But, yes, I do. Margaret doesn't lie…Katherine does. She told me she was 21 when we met."

"How old _is_ she?"

"That's three, you're _terrible_ at this…she's eighteen."

" _Gross_ ," Anne says, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

" _Excuse_ me?" he says, looking offended, he starts to play with his lighter, spinning it in circles.

"How old are _you_?"

"I'm cutting you off, it's my turn."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Henry's mainly facing the bar still, but shifted towards her, and she's the same, face resting on folded hands.

His elbows rest flat against the bar, arms crossed, hands over his biceps.

Already he can tell she's more open than before, less irritated, more receptive in general, head tilted towards him. He tends to have that effect on women, and has it quickly, but her spark is kept lit, whereas at this point most women would withdraw theirs, start flattering his ego, stop saying anything that may be misconstrued as offensive.

 _This_ girl has no such worries, _that_ much is clear. She is challenge after challenge, card after card, expression and words equally sharp.

"Why did you two break up?" Henry asks.

She sighs, her mouth twitches and settles into a grimace.

"We had a dinner with his family, to, uh…announce our _own_ engagement, actually," she says, worrying her hands together, fixed on them, examining them.

"And that didn't go well, I assume?"

"Unless your definition of 'well' includes your betrothed's parents telling you in no uncertain terms that you're trash and not good enough to marry into their family…I'd say no."

"What did _he_ do?"

"Nothing. That was the problem. He didn't defend me. Folded…he cried, actually," she says, shaking her head, a chagrined smile on her lips, " _I_ didn't even let them see me cry, and _I_ was the one they were attacking."

"So he ends up marrying…"

"The Percy-approved Mary Talbot."

"Stupid fucking name," he repeats, because… _really_? _Talbot_? _Talbot and Percy_? ' _Tall-butt'_ _and the annoying older brother from Harry Potter?_ _What a fucking pair they must be._

"Yeah," she agrees, laughing, " _stupid_ fucking name. But…I stole from her," she says brightly, as if she's just remembered, clapping her hands together, she gets down from her seat, moves back to her original one, grabs her bag, and slides back to the one next to him.

"Ta-da!" she announces, pulling a bottle of Prosseco out of it with a flourish, as if she's a magician that just pulled a rabbit out of a top-hat.

"Nice," Henry says, examining the label, "expensive, too."

"Hey," says the bartender(who at this point Henry had almost completely forgotten about, honestly), taking his phone from his ear and setting it over his shoulder "you can't drink that here."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

" _Je m'excuse_ ," Anne says, " _mais vous ne l'avez pas été très accommodante putain, non?_ "

" _Pardon, mais_ -"

" _Me donner deux verres et je vous laisse le reste. Je vais essayer de vous entendre avec ce gars_. _D'accord?_ "

" _D'accord_ ," the bartender says, rolling his eyes, but turning around to grab two flutes and pushing them towards the two of them nonetheless.

" _Merci_ ," Anne says, smiling as she opens the twist off and pours her drink, then Henry's.

Maybe he doesn't think he needs to serve them, given that most of the tables are full of groups nursing their drinks, waifs and their agents pushing around the food on their plates, but that's his problem, Anne thinks. She's _been_ sitting here. He and his shitty customer service can bite her ass, honestly.

"You speak French?" Henry asks.

" _Oui_ ," she says, taking a sip, "I went to boarding school in France. Four years."

It has the crispness of pears, the bubbles light, tingling against her tongue. The bartender leaves with a pitcher of ice water, makes his rounds for refills and orders behind them. Anne wishes for him to trip, spitefully.

"Do you?" she asks.

"A little."

"Oh? Like?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Henry drinks from his glass, taking her in.

First, there's the teasing lilt of her voice on the last word she just spoke. Their question game seems to be forgotten. Second, she hasn't moved her hair back from the spot he left it, so her left shoulder, the left side of her neck, is left exposed, vulnerable.

Which means, if she should flush, he will see it. It won't be hidden.

 _"Voulez_ - _vous coucher avec moi_ , _ce soir_?"

Her expression remains the same, for the most part, save for the corner of her mouth tugging upwards in a smirk, displaying a dimple as it does.

"Is that an example…or are you asking me?"

" _Both_ ," he says, almost viciously, knowing that he's conveying intensity by her sharp intake of breath.

"Where do you live?" she asks, dipping her finger into her drink, she sucks it off, popping her finger out, leaving a red ring of lipstick around it.

"Close."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

His hands are working furiously at the ribbons on the front of her dress, fumbling as he tries to tug them, Anne ( _Anne, Anne, her name is Anne_ , she had told him her name as they ran from the bar when he asked for it, holding hands, her heels shoved in her bag, pantyhose being the only thing between her feet and the grass they ran across) hoisted up over the metal bar on the side of the elevator of his apartment building.

"They don't," Anne says, gasping as he kisses her behind her ear, then as he lands another one to her neck just under the first (a particularly sensitive area, Henry notes, as that knowledge could serve him well), "there's a zipper, I don't-"

He's just managed to rip them open, exposing the lacy white of her bra and bare skin, when the elevator dings open.

"Mrs. Todd," Henry says, clearing his throat as he quickly rids himself of his leather jacket, using it to cover Anne's chest, "how are you?"

The woman, his mailbox neighbor, actually (not his next door neighbor, given that he lives in the penthouse, no one is) looks like she's just sucked on a particularly bitter lemon, glaring at both of them as she uses both hands to cover up the eyes of her seven-year-old son.

Mrs. Todd shakes her head, slowly, as if her judgment is heavy enough to make it a struggle to move her head from left to right.

Anne beams, face flushed, lips swollen from kissing.

"Hi!" Anne chirps, seeming not the least bit embarrassed, "what's up?"

" _Bye_ , Mrs. Todd," Henry says as the doors start inching towards the center.

"I'll be speaking to the landlord about this!" the woman shouts.

"That'd be my dad, so good luck with that!" Henry says in a cheery tone.

They explode into laughter as soon as the doors close, Anne puts her hand over her mouth, shoulder shaking, laughing so hard that tears leak from her eyes.

Henry pulls down the jacket he's draped over her.

"I want to look at you," he says.

"You ruined my dress," she says.

"I'll buy you another one."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Henry's not really grateful to Katherine Howard for much (she did give great head, but then she also stole his credit cards on a frequent basis- to buy lingerie that she'd show him later, but, _still_ ; a _little_ presumptuous of her), but while Anne's in the bathroom, he's quite grateful for the mix CD's she left littered around his apartment.

She has quite a gift for compiling mixes, if nothing else- there's never anything slightly somber _or_ any lyrics that mention the word 'darling' in any of the CD's that have the words "fuck" or "bang" or "sex me the fuck up" scrawled on them in red Sharpie. _This_ he knows from experience.

So, Henry feels pretty confident as he slides all of them into his stereo disc player and presses the 'shuffle' button.

That confidence is reaffirmed when Anne opens the bathroom door, the middle of the bodice of her dress ripped from her clavicle to where her rib cage begins, legs bare (she rid herself of the pantyhose, evidently), neck bare (the 'B' necklace gone), lipstick wiped clean but mouth still slightly stained red (like she's been sucking on a cherry popsicle), and pushes him up against the wall to the intro chords of Apple's _Criminal_.

Henry laughs, enjoying the reaction, catching his tongue between his teeth as he does so, hands against her waist, he pulls her flush up against him, the distance between them practically nonexistent, now.

He's the first to close his eyes, but Anne doesn't make him wait long: she kisses him like she's been in the desert and he's the first glass of water she's had in days. She tastes like rain and cherries (the second one can be explained by chapstick, the first one's a little harder to). Her lips glide over his, theirs overlap, his bottom lip captured between hers as she nips it before letting it go.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Anne softens the pressure, trying to turn it down from fierce to soft, hands pressed firmly against his shoulders ( _he tastes like mint_ ), tracing her tongue over his bottom lip, what feels like a soft prayer for control that goes unanswered as he pushes her back, forward and forward and forward, until her ass hits the wooden entertainment center, her back flat against it, the force of it causing the CD track to skip:

 _heaven help me, heaven help me, heaven help me, heaven help mee-e-e-ee….._

The stereo makes some glitchy noise, like a little robot hiccup, then commences at the former tempo of the song:

 _heaven help me, for the way i am_

He rubs his nose against the end of hers, once, then says, "my turn," before kneeling to the floor.

Henry bites his lip, grinning, as he slides his hands up the outer part of her legs, hooks his thumbs through the edges of her underwear, and pulls them down her legs.

Past Anne pats Present Anne on the head. _You're welcome_ , she says, a distant voice in the back of her mind as Henry loops the white, lacy thong over one foot that she lifts, then the other, _you're welcome for being paranoid and deciding to wear good, matching underwear, deciding to shave just in case you ended up hate-fucking Henry Percy and accidentally-on-purpose letting TalBotbitch see….that's come in handy, hasn't it, Anne?_

"I'll keep these," he says, drowning out the voice, spinning the small interlacing strips of fabric around his index before tucking it into the pocket of his jeans, "you won't be needing them."

"I don't think _you-ah!_ ," she gasps as he lifts a leg and places a kiss under her knee, lapping his tongue there once, one of her most ticklish spots, she sighs, continues, "I don't…think… _you_ need them either."

Henry stills, puts her leg down, glaring up at her.

"That. Was. _Rude_ ," he says, slowly and evenly, each word a punishment, a delay.

"I-"

Henry stands, takes her hand, pulls her against him, snakes one hand behind the small of her back, the other behind her knees, before lifting her and carrying her past the living room, down the hallway.

He continues to carry her as he walks down the hall, turns around to push his back against the ajar door (to his bedroom, Anne imagines, dizzy at the thought), then placing her onto his King size bed, gently, before snapping the string of the lamp of his bedside table, casting a soft light on the room.

Anne sits up against the plush pillows on the headboard, crosses her arms, sulkily.

"That was rude," he says again, pupils dilated, eyes a darker, stormier blue than she remembers, standing next to the bed, his own arms crossed, "and I think you should be punished for it."

"I doubt you'd know how," she challenges, tilting her head to the side.

" _Oh_ ," he says with a chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand, "oh…my…God."

"We'll need a safe word," he says, unzipping his leather jacket, eyes never leaving hers.

"Like what?" she asks, playing doubtful still.

"Mmmm…'rose'," he decides, shrugging it off and tossing it on the floor.

"What, are you a closeted Titanic fan or something?"

"You better stop mouthing off," Henry warns, "and, no. It's my family crest."

"That's not very sexy."

"Yeah," he says, sitting next to her in bed, nudging her chin upwards, gently, with his hand, "kind of the point."

"Fine. 'Rose' it is."

Henry draws his hand away from her chin. He moves to the edge of the bed, back to her, his legs hanging over the side.

"Sit on my lap," he says.

Anne gets up from her seat and does, he holds his hand out and helps her onto it.

The denim feels soft against her bare legs, and he's facing her, close enough that she can make out all the individual hairs against his chin, his jaw line, close enough to trace the strong line of his nose…

"I don't like the way you've been talking to me," he says, voice a velvety whisper, he plays a game of connect the dots across her skin (one mark on her chest, then another, one mark on her face, then the next, brushing his fingers against each one), "and I think you need to learn a lesson about mouthing off."

"Maybe," she admits, shrugging a single shoulder.

"Definitely," he says, "turn around, and go over my knees."

Anne does, getting up from his lap and placing herself over his knees, wriggling around, he helps her adjust, squeezes her waist before lifting the skirt of her dress, exposing her backside.

The air feels cool against her cheeks, and she fidgets some more, wet from the anticipation, from knowing he's looking but not being able to see him look, and she feels his fingers in her hair, caressing it before tugging it, gently, he whispers, "I want you like this. Just. Like. This," and Anne almost cries out from that alone.

She feels him tracing the skin over her cheeks, almost as if making a pattern, before he withdraws his hand, sighs, and spanks her, the force stinging, a thrill running through her at the shock (she shouldn't be shocked, really, she knew this was coming, and yet, and _yet_ …).

Henry rubs the spot of exposed skin that he just hit, gently, as if to soothe it. Then, he spanks her again, repeats the soothing motion. Spanks, spanks, spanks, and her cries are less painful yelps and more breathy moans, her face in her hands.

Something about the combination of being exposed, and totally at Henry's mercy, something about the contrast, his calloused fingers against her soft skin, alternately gentle and punishing, is really, really just…killing her, honestly. What she wouldn't give to be on her back instead, or even back up against the wood of the entertainment center, either or, with his head between her thighs…this just makes her want that even more.

It stings, it _stings_ and she gasps and she nearly spasms when she remembers that her underwear are still in his pocket, being 'kept safe'. In _his_ ownership.

Anne thinks of how he took them from her, how they were in his hands, spun around his finger like she'd thought he was spun around hers, before being tucked away.

Thinks about the white lace, the string of the thong, the silk, being balled up in a fist, then shoved in a pocket, and her, _her_ being without them, defenseless for this moment.

"Have you learned your lesson?" he asks, rubbing a hand under her cheek, sliding a hand in between her legs (not _there_ , but tantalizingly close to there, a fact Anne's sure he's very well aware of).

"Yes," she says.

"Good."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Henry takes off his shirt, and by the time he's pulled it up and over his head she's rid herself of her dress and is reclining against his pillows, naked from the waist down, bra still on, legs crossed in a beauty-queen stretch.

He studies her with rapt attention, and she pulls her gaze from his, looking instead out the bedroom window, which looks out onto the pool and garden of the apartment complex.

"Want me to close those?" he offers, walking over to the window, he tugs one of the red, velvet drapes gathered by the side.

Anne looks at him, quirks an eyebrow, and shakes her head, slowly.

Henry shrugs (it doesn't bother him, either) and strides over to the bed, unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them, and kicking them off by the time he's at the headboard, left only in his boxers. He takes her hand, kneels onto the mattress and pulls her up to him till she's kneeling too, facing him, torso to torso.

"You should take that off," he says, slipping two fingers between the ravine of her breasts, tugging the front clasp.

"I'm good," she says, heat rising to her face, a light pink dusting her ears as well

"I can't think of any reason you'd want to-"

"They're small," she says, overlapping the hand that's touching her sternum and tugging it, trying to pry it from its hold on her bra, he assumes.

"I can see that," Henry says, looking down at her chest, the expanse of skin under her collarbone taut, cleavage minimal, the swell of her breasts is a delicate one, and only just above the top of her strapless bra.

" _Hey_!"

"It's not a bad thing," he reassures, sliding the front clasp open deftly, before she can protest, letting it fall around her waist and onto the comforter, ridding her of the last piece of fabric standing between her and complete nakedness.

Anne takes a ragged breath, eyes darkening but intent on him, still.

Henry hasn't so much as glanced at her exposed chest yet, though he wants to, of course, he's sure delayed gratification will be better. And, besides, it's something she's insecure about, for whatever reason. Assuaging her fears before sneaking a peek only seems right.

"See?" he says, voice low as he cups a hand over a perky breast, eyes never leaving hers as he does, her skin smooth, he rolls a thumb over the nipple and is rewarded with a gasp, "perfect fit."

He cups the other one and does the same, allowing himself to look, finally, and the view doesn't disappoint: her skin is creamy, breasts pert and nipples a pretty, pale pink, and she shifts her hips, wriggles a little as he caresses them again, swiping a thumb on the underside of each.

"Lie down," he says, kissing her on the corner of her mouth, "I'll be right back."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Anne waits, lying on her side, taking in the room: the rich tapestries on the walls, colors of scarlet and gold, the mirrors on the outside of his closet, one of the doors of it open, she can make out the sharp lines of a suit, is wondering if she can get away with snooping when Henry returns, two water bottles in hand.

He lies down next to her, settles in on the other side, hands a bottle to her and she drinks, gulps, really, her throat more dry than she realized. She leans over and sets it on the nightstand, and by the time she rolls back over to him he is kissing the hollow of her throat, his hands slide from her breasts to her hips, gripping them, he flips her over onto her back, climbing on top of her, arms pinned on either side of her.

"Got you," he says, kissing a trail from her neck to the bottom of her ribcage, he hooks one arm behind her knees and pulls her to the edge of the bed swiftly and kneels on the floor.

Anne parts her knees, ready ( _about ready times ten, now, actually,_ she's been ready since 'Criminal' stuck and skipped in the stereo) and eager.

Henry rests his face against her left inner thigh, the facial hair on his cheek scraping against the smoothness of her skin, slightly, and whispers against it: "Do I have your permission?"

" _God_ , yes," she says, and is rewarded for that answer by his mouth pressed against her slit (she takes it back, any disparaging thought she may have had about the size of his mouth, it feels luxurious, she _takes_ it _back_ , it's a beautiful mouth and she wants it there).

She was wet way before he traveled downwards, but that affect is now magnified as his tongue laps against her folds, as he squeezes her legs, as his tongue glides over her clit with the gentlest of pressures (she has no idea how he knows that; that she _hates_ when men tap at your clit rapidly, like they're trying to set off a bomb, or play the drums, that she likes being teased around it way before she wants it to be the center of attention).

Anne tugs at his hair and he laughs, the low rumble vibrating between her thighs, but continues, tracing circles with his tongue, he lets go of his hold on her right leg and slips a digit in at the front of the entrance, teasing it there. She moans and he hooks it in farther, then inserts another, sucking the bundle of nerves atop gently as he does.

She shifts her hips, trying to meet the mounting pressure head-on, increase the friction, and ends up bumping his nose as she does.

He slides his mouth off of her and her thighs are trembling, damp with sweat and arousal as he palms her center, brushing his thumb against her clit while he stares at her.

Henry's not smiling, but he's certainly not frowning either- maybe smirking, if anything, his mouth swollen and red and glistening, eyes hooded and lazy, relaxed as he coaxes her towards orgasm.

Anne's just about to fall apart when his head returns between her thighs. When his mouth takes over where his thumb left off, _that's_ when the waves of pleasure course through in earnest; pulsate and throb until they crash, ebb after the flow, and she's spent, limp.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Henry covers her with a sheet he's grabbed out of his closet (he kind of has a thing about his bedcovers…as in, he doesn't get under them until he's going to be sleeping), since she's shivering, covered in a sheen of sweat, resting against the pillows again, her bottle of water in hand.

Anne adjust the sheet, wrapping it around herself, and thanks him.

He sits next to her and drinks his water, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and laughs.

"What?" she asks, curled up, hands resting against her knees, head tilted towards him, mussed hair falling in tangled curls over the sheet tucked in over her chest.

"You said my name," he says with a shrug.

"Oh…I did?"

"Mmm-hmm," he says, nodding, "like, a _lot_."

"Huh," Anne says, eyes mischievously bright, tapping her fingers against the bottle, she reaches for the drawer in the nightstand, opens it, and starts rummaging around.

"What are you doing?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Anne ditches her water on the mahogany surface on the nightstand and finds a condom ( _predictably_ , she thinks) within seconds of her search, folds her hand around it, shuts the drawer and returns to bed.

"It's your turn to say mine," she says, whipping the sheet off her body, she straddles him in one swift movement.

She shudders, inadvertently, at the feel of fabric against her center as she shifts, grabbing both of his wrists and pinning them against the mattress.

Henry grins, chest heaving as she grinds against him, he wriggles his wrists as if trying to see if he can slip them out of her grasp, so she tightens it, squeezes her hands around them.

He arches a single eyebrow, eyes dark and grey as rain clouds, face flushed. She's stronger than she looks and she knows it; isn't surprised by his surprise.

"I want to fuck you," she says, bucking her hips against his.

"And I want you to," he says, voice low, "but you should sit on my face, first."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"You were just there," Anne points out, wriggling on top of him.

"I like the way you taste," he says (more truthfully, he _loves_ the way she tastes, but 'love' is a word Henry's careful not to use on nights such as this, within any context, as it can be easily misconstrued), "and besides, it'll give me time to get ready on my end. _Not_ that I need much help in that department," he says, clearing his throat, attempting to adjust himself from her hold on his hips from in between her legs.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I've noticed," she quips, his length hard and warm against her thigh, even through the cotton of his boxers.

Anne lets go of his wrists, because really, she's not going to deny herself a chance at more oral, especially when she now knows the giver is really, _really_ good at it.

She lifts her knees off of him and lies on the other side of the bed, waiting for him as he rids himself of his boxers, and whistles at the reveal.

"Stop," he says while she settles herself over his shoulders, broad and slick with sweat, "you're making me blush."

"No, I'm not."

"Don't be afraid to ride it," he says.

"It's not the only thing I'm going to be riding," she says.

"Cute."

"I try," Anne says, lifting her torso, she lets it hover slightly above his mouth before resting it gently against it.

His tongue dances against her entrance, sweeps a warm stripe against her slit before his mouth presses into her sex with a closed kiss, then an open, languorous one. She follows his request, rocking her hips, she grabs the headboard with both hands, trying to brush her clit with every movement and succeeding, for the most part.

Henry's eyes are closed, a sweep of lashes against his pale skin, casting shadows down his sharp cheekbones. Sweat gathers at his temples, a drop slides down his forehead, luminescent against the few freckles that dust his face.

Anne hears the swish of skin against skin, feels his shoulder shift up and down against her leg as he touches himself. Usually such a sound would bother her, distract her from her own pleasure, in fact (she's not one for mixing sex acts, she's only 69ed once and she didn't enjoy it- not because she minds giving head, she _quite_ enjoys that, actually, as she enjoys most things she's good at, but _if_ she's giving head she wants to be able to focus, and if she's getting it she wants to relax and focus on _her_ orgasm, not someone else's…call it single-mindedness, call it selfishness, it's just the way she's wired), but she likes it, actually, the evidence of her arousal matching his doubling when he groans and it reverberates against her.

When she looks down at him his eyes are open, intent on hers. He winks, and, assuming this is the signal that he's ready to start, she eases herself off his face, the inside of her legs slick, and reaches for the condom.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He didn't last long while she was on top of him, but Anne doesn't mind. If she'd done it longer it probably would've started to hurt, given that he's the most well-endowed man she's ever been with. She rode him for the duration of Maroon 5's _Harder to Breathe_ and (amusingly) Britney's _Baby One More Time_ (a song selection based on his teenage ex, Anne hypothesizes, but who knows, she could be wrong, perhaps behind that cool, smooth exterior lurks a diehard Britney Spears fan).

They're on round two of intercourse now, and have since switched positions. Henry's on top of her, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer with every thrust.

He leans down to kiss her (really, God help her, because she doesn't know how anyone after him is going to compete with petal-softness of _those lips_ ) snagging her bottom lip between his teeth before he slips his tongue inside her mouth.

She deepens the kiss, snakes a hand around his back, and scratches down it, lightly, and he sighs.

"Harder," he whispers in her ear, fingers interlaced in her hair, he pulls it, slowly.

"How much harder?" she asks, pressing her calf into the small of his back

"Let's just say," Henry continues, biting her earlobe, "that blood doesn't make me squeamish."

Anne rakes her fingernails down the taut muscles of his back with all the force she can muster and feels him shudder, he gasps into her neck and pulsates inside her.

She withdraws her legs from around his waist and he pulls out, hand around the condom, slides it off, pinching the top.

"Christ, I haven't come without warning like that since I was sixtee- fuck!" he exclaims suddenly, dropping the condom into the trash can at the end of the bed, "oh, fuck, I think it broke, do you have-"

"It's not that big a deal," Anne says, grabbing the crumpled up sheet from the foot of the bed and using it to dab the sweat on her neck, her collarbone.

"What do you mean, of course it's-"

"I'm on the pill," she says, putting a hand on his face, reassuring, "relax. If it did, it's fine."

"Oh. Why'd you have me wear one, then?" he asks, sliding off the bed and grabbing his boxers before pulling them over his legs.

"STD's, hello?"

"I don't have an STD," he scoffs, finding his shirt on the floor and pulling it over his head.

"And how would I know that? I just met you."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Right," he says, taking in the view of her.

Her hair is mussed, damp with sweat, eyes dark and shining, mouth swollen and red, a pretty flush sweeps over her face, neck, décolletage, white sheet pulled against her chest, held up with one hand.

Henry thinks he was about to ask her something, but for the life of him he can't remember what; is rapt by the image of her in his bed, tracing her fingers over her mouth as if it's tender, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks owlishly.

"Do you…um…need anything?" he asks, scratching the nape of his neck.

"Clothes," she says, tilting her head to the side.

"Clothes?"

"You ripped my dress, remember? I'll at least need to borrow a jacket, or something, before I go."

"You don't have to go," he says quickly, (too quickly, he thinks, judging by her raised eyebrows), "it's late, you shouldn't walk home alone."

"I can call a cab," she says with a shrug, "I don't mind."

"You can stay the night. If you want to, I mean."

It's not an offer he makes very often. Usually he uses the "early day tomorrow" excuse, even with girlfriends. Or the "light sleeper" excuse. Or the "I kick in my sleep" excuse. And, if those fail, he'll smoothly compliment them into leaving: _you're too sexy, too distracting, I'll just want to fuck you all night_ , _I'll end up cuddling in the morning and won't be able to leave the bed, and I'll never get to work on time_ , etc., etc.

"Um…okay," she says, "I'll still need something to wear, though."

"Will you, though?"

"Well…yeah, I can't just walk around your apartment naked."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

" _I_ think you can," he says, a wolfish grin on his face, arms crossed.

Anne rolls her eyes and says, "I'll get cold."

"I'll turn up the heat."

"Henry!"

"Fine," he says, sighing dramatically, "I'm sure there's…something," he says, turning around to face his closet, he pulls open one mirrored door, starts flipping through button-downs, "do you like flannel?"

"Not really."

"A- _ha_!" he exclaims, disappearing from view before coming back out, dragging a chest with him.

Anne gets up from his bed, wraps the sheet around her waist and sits next to him on the red Persian carpet on the floor.

The chest in front of him is gorgeous, made of a glossy, dark oak, a pomegranate carved into the wood along with little leaves adorning it.

Henry lifts the latch, opening it, revealing clothes, silk and cashmere, a rainbow of colors, just on the top.

"You can take whatever you'd like," he says, scooting backwards, "my ex left these here a few years ago. I've asked her to come pick them up a million times, but apparently they're all 'last season's'," he puts air quotes up on the last words, accompanying them with an eye roll.

"Oh?" Anne says, reaching in and pulling out what looks like a pajama top, bright purple and a buttery texture against her fingertips, "which ex is this?"

"My first girlfriend, actually," he says, his voice muffled as she slips it over her head, "the first Katherine, too."

"Was she eighteen, too?" she teases, ruffling through the clothes, hoping to find pants.

" _No_ ," he says, "but I was, when we dated. She was the older one, actually."

"By how much?" she asks, running her hand over a pink cashmere sweater, then holding it up to her face.

"Six years."

"Wow," she says, "you must have had serious game. What happened there?"

Henry shrugs, says, "she wanted kids, marriage…I didn't."

"Didn't, or don't?" Anne asks, pulling out a pair of wide-legged, silk pants and examining them.

They'll be short on her, and they don't match the top she's wearing (royal blue instead of purple) but it's fine, since she's just planning on wearing these here, anyway. She should probably look for something to wear for when she leaves tomorrow morning, so she starts to look for another outfit to lay out.

"Both," he says, "I'm too selfish for it, honestly. I don't want to take care of anyone. I like my life, I like…traveling whenever I want, wherever I want, staying out late…I don't want to tie anyone's shoes, have someone rely on me. It doesn't appeal."

"Well," she says, pulling the pants on under the sheet (she knows it's silly, since he's already seen her naked, but she'd feel awkward changing in front of him while they talk about something semi-serious), "at least you know."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Jesus Christ," Anne says, scanning the contents of his freezer, "was your girlfriend Jabba the Hut?"

"No, why would you-"

"You have, like…forty flavors of ice cream in here."

"Yeah, so? I like ice cream," Henry says, and she can hear the pout in his voice.

"So you're telling me that she didn't buy _any_ of these?"

"No, she was always on a diet."

"So you bought cake batter flavor."

"Yes."

"And butter pecan."

"Yes."

"And chocolate peanut-"

"Yes, Anne, I bought everything in there! Will you just _pick_ something? I'm starving."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

For the most part, the rest of the night consists of them talking. They exchange college stories, he tells her about the UK, she tells him about France.

Eventually she says she needs to take a shower. When he follows her, she puts a hand to his chest and says, "no, I'm worn out." He says, "that's okay, I like to watch", and she responds, "of course you do."

She lets him watch (wondering if he had it built with voyeuristic purposes in mind, given that the whole thing is glass, squarely in the middle of the bathroom, too, visible from all four clear walls), hands lingering over her skin, caressing herself as she washes more than she would if she were in there alone, and eventually says, "are you going to come in or you going to sit out there like a loser?"

So Henry joins her, and she kneels onto the marble tiles and gives him head, a thank you for earlier, enjoying the feeling of his hand in her wet hair, massaging her scalp as she swipes her tongue around the head, enjoys hearing him take God's and the Lord's name in vain, hums contentedly when he does (and he takes them _several_ times, vividly, in various forms: _Jesus, Oh my Fucking God, Jesus Fucking Christ, God, Goddamn_ …etc.).

Once that's finished, she finally picks out an outfit to wear for her walk to her sister's apartment tomorrow (his apartment was two blocks from the bar they met at, so she knows Mary's place is about a mile or so from his), and while she does she discovers a Polaroid camera in the chest the First Katherine left behind.

They take pictures with it, quite a few: smiling pictures, goofy pictures, ones of faux serious expressions, ones with them together, ones with them by themselves.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Henry wakes up the next morning, Anne asleep next to him.

He gets out of bed, carefully, not wanting to wake her.

His stomach growls- they didn't have dinner last night, just ice cream. He figures she'll probably be hungry when she wakes up, too, so he writes her a note before he leaves to buy breakfast.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The window, which Anne opened last night for fresh air, is still ajar. A gust of wind blows through the room, but Anne is a heavy sleeper.

The note, however, folded atop the nightstand, is blown off the surface, and drifts, softly as a feather falling, to the floor, and then, with another gust, under the bed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Anne wakes up to an empty room, sun glaring in her eyes.

She changes into the ex-girlfriend outfit, a deep crimson dress that falls to her knees, along with a matching shawl that she drapes around her shoulders, then slides on red shoes(miraculously, her and Katherine are the same shoe size, which is lucky, because it means she can wear comfortable flats for her walk, rather than the heels she wore last night).

The Polaroid camera is still on the nightstand, so she takes one last picture of herself, what she hopes is a mysterious smile, shakes it out after it leaves the slot but doesn't look at it, just places it by the lamp.

Anne picks a few out of the pile of the photographs they took last night, too, but leaves some behind.

She's not going to leave him her phone number or anything, she has too much pride for that. If he wants to leave her with not so much as cab fare, not so much as a goodbye, that's his prerogative.

Anne tells herself that she doesn't mind this, that she never even thought she was going to go home with him, at first, didn't expect it to be anything more than a one-night stand once she did.

It _had_ felt like a little bit more than that, maybe, in certain moments, but she was probably just attaching meaning to it that wasn't there, still emotional from the aftermath of watching a man she had once loved promise to love someone else forever.

So she takes her purse off the kitchen counter she left it on, places the photos atop her heels, and leaves, locking the door behind her.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Anne crosses the street and takes a left on Fountain Avenue.

By the time Henry walks down Sweetzer Avenue to Fountain, large paper bag full of almost every breakfast menu item from his favorite restaurant in hand, Anne is already six blocks to the left down Fountain, has already passed several apartment complexes she could never afford a rental in, several boutiques whose hats cost more than her current rent. She passes jacaranda trees, the wind whipping the branches and causing the flowers to drift down towards her feet; flowers the color of lilacs and the scent of honey.

Usually Anne loves them, loves the reminder that she lives someplace beautiful, but on this particular walk the sweet scent makes her dizzy, and she bats them away as they fall near her, annoyed by how the gusts of wind blow her hair around, getting in her eyes.

Had the timing been different, they may have crossed paths. If she had woken up later, he might have caught her as she left the building. Had less people ordered food before he did, they might have met on the same crosswalk.

Had the air been still, perhaps she would have read the note and stayed.

But none of these things happen.

Something else happens.

Something neither of them expected.

 _~...to be continued...~_


End file.
